


What Dreams May Come

by Armengard



Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Awkward Magical Curses, Chlodine - Freeform, Chlodine Week 2019, Dreams, F/F, Greece, Morpheus - Freeform, Much-Needed Sleep, Post-Game, Pre-Relationship, Shameless Smut, Uncharted: The Lost Legacy - Freeform, but also feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-07-24 17:47:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20018536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Armengard/pseuds/Armengard
Summary: Chloe Frazer just wants some bloody sleep, that's all.But every time she closes her eyes, all she can see is herself and her very much platonically-destined work partner Nadine Ross, doing...things.(sex. it's sex)





	1. Chapter 1

Sam and his tips. _Christ._

Next time, Chloe's going to tell him to stuff it. Save herself the trouble of a wasted plane ticket and the week of hard-sweating work it took to find this bloody place. Then maybe let her partner have a turn with him, just to really teach the Drake a lesson.

"Remind me," Nadine asks suddenly with clear disinterest, her South African accent gone low and grumbling to match her mood; tired, annoyed, and rather fed up. Chloe gets it. It's been a long day. "What's Morpheus the god of again? Sleep?"

Chloe looks up from where she's been rifling stubbornly through the sixth pile of rocks this hour alone in a dogged attempt to find _something_ worthwhile—even scraps are better than nothing. She stands, dusts her hands off with a short, disappointed sigh.

"Dreams, love," she says, heading to the seventh pile, now. By rote, she recites, "Technically, the god of sleep is Hypnos, Morpheus' father. Pasithea is his mum. She's the goddess of rest and relaxation. Not someone you'd be much acquainted with, hey?" She winks cheekily at her partner, who ignores steadfastly her, then goes on. "Morpheus had a few brothers, too, who'd help him with the dreams. Kept it in the family, them. Makes you wonder, though. You think day-dreaming counts, too, or—?"

"Fitting, all this business about sleep," says Nadine, cutting Chloe off with a roll of her eyes and abandoning her own pile of debris with an air of impatience, as though already convinced this entire venture is a complete waste of time. Chloe gets that, too. "'Bout to fall asleep myself, for all the excitement here."

And, okay. Maybe that's deserved. Chloe knows better than to take it personally, even though she's the one who made the call to listen to Sam and come here to southern Greece in what's turned out to be a less-than-wild goosechase. But hey, they found the temple, didn't they? Not _her_ fault it's empty.

The temple's quite a lot smaller than Chloe hoped. More of a shambling little structure than anything, not very impressive, built out of a half-crumbled cave with bricks of hard-baked clay and carved stone around the entrance and some broken idols further inside, perhaps used long ago to pray or pay homage to. Chloe's not sure what, exactly, they were hoping to find here. A bed of pure gold, perhaps, or maybe a pillow stuffed with coins and jewels? How 'bout a priceless artifact that allows you to bend your dreams to your will and make them a reality?

 _Yeah, not quite,_ Chloe thinks sourly, tossing another broken brick out of her way.

Instead of the untold riches Sam promised as a sure thing, it looks like Ross-Frazer Acquisitions will have to make due with dust, dirt, and the odd bit of what looks to be... poppy seeds? littering the ground. Which is fitting enough, as it was said Morpheus slept in a cave a lot like this one, filled with such seeds while he crafted mortal dreams. Means they're in the right place, at least.

And yet for all their hours of searching, they've found nothing. Chloe Frazer isn't a quitter, not anymore, but she also isn't a glutton for punishment, and she knows when to call it in.

She makes it through the rest of her pile, then stands, sighs again. Steps forward. "Look, maybe we should just—"

The ground beneath her foot crunches and gives way, swallowing her right leg up to the knee. Chloe squawks, flails. Nadine lunges and catches her by the elbow before she can fall or twist something.

"Careful," she says, and helps Chloe extract her foot. They kneel and peer into the hole, the edges of the rock so old and pulverized by time it's practically just a layer of dust at this point.

"Is that—?" Nadine starts.

"Ah- _ha!_ " Chloe crows in triumph, and reaches in before Nadine can stop her—booby traps are a thing, after all—and yanks out the flat, narrow little box, giving her partner her best _I-told-you-so_ smile. Nadine, still unimpressed, just grunts, and watches closely as Chloe finds the lid and eases it open.

And, well, it's not treasure, exactly, but it's something, alright.

The box itself appears to be made of carved horn, which is interesting, and inside is a single pristine feather about the length of Chloe's hand. In the faint light, it glistens like honey, the color of molten gold, though Chloe can immediately tell that's not what it's made of—for starters, it'd be much heavier if it were. She takes the quill between thumb and forefinger and lifts it from the box, giving it a twirl and marveling at its shimmer, then runs a finger up one side to the point. It's soft as silk.

"A feather," Nadine says bluntly, expression inscrutable.

"Well," says Chloe, similarly puzzled, "Morpheus _was_ said to be a winged god. Maybe this is supposed to represent—"

"Will it represent our business expenses for the next month, Frazer?" Nadine interrupts.

Chloe laughs. "I'm thinking... no." She pauses. "D'make a helluva nice pen, though, wouldn't it?"

Nadine stands, clearly done with the situation. "Well. Stay here and have fun with your feather if you like. I'm going back to the jeep."

"Right behind you, love," says Chloe, putting the feather back into its box and tucking it into her back pocket. It might not be worth anything, but it's still just about the only item within a hundred miles worth their trouble after so much time wasted on searching.

Sam Drake better sleep with two eyes open, after this.

They emerge from the cave, the Grecian sun setting purplish-red over the far horizon. The climb out takes longer in the growing dark, and the walk back is rocky and treacherous, with only the narrow beams of their flashlights to show the way. By the time they reach the vehicle, footsore and sweaty, it's past 11PM and black all around.

Nadine shoots her a dubious look when Chloe, mid-yawn, immediately tries to climb behind the steering wheel.

"Maybe we should have a quick rest," she suggests, only with Nadine, it's not so much a suggestion than an outright order.

Not that Chloe minds, right now. In fact, she's all for it. Too many sleepless nights of research, not to mention trekking back and forth across Greece's rugged southern terrain for several days in a row has done her in, and they’re not currently anywhere close to a city or a town or even running water. A catnap seems just the thing before making the lengthy, hazardous trip back to civilization.

"Good idea, china," Chloe yawns, "don't mind if I do," and clambers over the middle console to curl up on the jeep's stiff back seats (a poor substitute for her bed back home, but Chloe's not about to complain). Nadine makes a noise of assent, and then says something about completing a patrol or two—not so much out of blatant paranoia but well-drilled military routine, earned from her time with Shoreline—but Chloe's already drowsing off, and waves her away tiredly. The second her head hits something relatively solid, she's asleep.

—

She dreams.

First thing Chloe notices, in the dream, is that she’s still in the jeep, which isn’t terribly odd, since not all dreams are about flying or falling or having magical powers; some are mundane, set right where you left off when you fell asleep. Only thing different here is Chloe isn’t sprawled across the back seats anymore—she’s sitting in the front, driver's side, hands loose on the steering wheel, but the jeep isn't on, as there aren’t any keys in the ignition.

She’s waiting for something, she realizes after a moment. Or maybe some _one._

The passenger door opens. Chloe glances over to see Nadine getting in. Again, not strange. Chloe’s had dreams about her partner more than a few times. It comes with the territory when you’re around someone as often as they are. Tied at the hip, practically, the two of them, so, bound to happen.

It is a _little_ odd, however, that here in the dream, Nadine’s soft, curly hair is down around her shoulders rather than tied rigidly back, and instead of her usual tactical clothing and military boots Chloe's used to seeing, Nadine is now wearing only a pair of loose gray sweatpants and a sports bra. Which, okay. Wow. That's nice.

Chloe has a moment or two to admire the dream’s detailed rendering of those fabulous muscles of Nadine's, lean and hard and straining across her torso and arms, _Jesus—_

—and then quite suddenly dream-Nadine is swaying toward her, much closer than Chloe is prepared for, a warm, inviting look on her face.

 _Is she about—?_ Chloe thinks, right before Nadine kisses her. Her lips are soft. Her tongue is softer—and then it's hard, swiping firmly between Chloe's slack lips and darting over her own lax tongue in a wet nudge, as though urging it to play.

Chloe holds back only for a second before reminding herself this is a dream, where literally anything can happen and she can do whatever the bloody hell she wants without repercussions. Then she grabs hold of Nadine by the arms and kisses her back, because—because, well, who goddamn wouldn't? Nadine's muscles bunch and shift wonderfully beneath her palms. Chloe moans at the feel. It's just how she's always... well, dreamed it.

Nadine pulls away then, and Chloe's ready to pitch a fit with how quickly that ended, disappointment clogging her throat, and then squeaks aloud when Nadine suddenly climbs over the gearshift to straddle her, arse jammed against the steering wheel, arms crossed on Chloe's headrest, shoulders thick with muscle, breasts hovering inches from Chloe's face, and, um. Alright.

“You cool?” says dream-Nadine, voice low and rumbly with concern. Their little code words, used to check up on each other—a thoughtful one, this version of Nadine. Almost like the real thing.

Chloe just nods dumbly. She can’t speak for some reason, words building up in the back of her throat, unable to break free. Clearly, this is one of those dreams where she won't be able to do much other than hang on for the ride. Not that she minds so much, here.

Her blood surges hot in her veins when Nadine smiles crookedly at her and then leans down, all looming and dominant and brimming with confidence and raw sexuality—god, Chloe needs to get laid—and kisses Chloe again, firmly and deeply, sliding that warm tongue back into her mouth and then running a hand down her side to tug insistently at the bottom of Chloe’s shirt, as if intent on undressing her right there in their cramped, dusty jeep, and that’s just fine with Chloe, really, so—

—

And then she wakes up.

And, okay. _Rude._ Chloe groans. There's a fierce crick in her neck from the way her head is propped on the door. Her cheekbone aches from the hard pressure of the armrest. She feels groggy. Almost like she's hungover. She groans again, checks her watch—she's only been asleep for a few hours, Christ, really?

"Sleep well?" she hears, and nearly jumps. Nadine's in the jeep's passenger seat, just like she was in the dream. It's a little unsettling, seeing her there, and Chloe almost has a moment of sexy-but-also-sort-of-awkward deja-vu until she takes in Nadine's usual cargo pants and tightly bound ponytail, and the hazy fog clouding her mind fades. No abs on display here, folks. Shame.

Nadine glances over her shoulder at her, probably wondering why she hasn't spoken yet.

"Er," says Chloe quickly. "I guess."

"Hmm," says Nadine, and turns back to focus on her disassembled pistol in her lap—cleaning her weapons is something Nadine does anytime she's bored, or wants to keep calm and focused. She’s shed her safari shirt sometime while Chloe slept and the way her arms look in that tank top is incredibly distracting. “Didn’t want to wake you, but now that you're up, we should probably get moving.”

“Sure,” says Chloe, rubbing her sandy eyes and feeling only a bit more alert than before. “Thanks. For, uh, letting me sleep.”

"Ja."

Chloe finds the door latch and gets out. High above, the moon is a stark white gleam through the clouds, darkness encroached all around them. Chloe breathes in the cool night air and walks around the jeep a few times, trying to stretch her stiff legs, feeling a bit like she's still stuck in a dream, though she's sure she's awake.

Well, she thinks to herself. That was... interesting. A little weird, yes, but still, nothing to worry about. She’s had her fair share of steamy sex dreams in her life. Who hasn’t? It happens when you have a healthy libido like Chloe does, and attractive people around you for more than five minutes a day. When she first started working with Nadine in India, months ago now, she’d had a few hot, blurry dreams of her—nothing blatantly sexual, really, just sort of... tense. 

And, well, this one had been a bit _more_ than tense, sure, and Chloe might like to think about it a little longer, preferably alone or with a nice glass of wine at hand, but not now, in the middle of bloody nowhere with Nadine right there, oblivious. Time and a place.

So, like the responsible adult Chloe is, she shakes off the vestiges of the dream and tries her best to get her head back on straight, per se. She also takes a minute to check and make sure the golden-sheened feather is still in her bag where she put it before falling asleep—it is, relatively unharmed from travel so far. Good.

Satisfied, she gets behind the wheel, nods at Nadine, and starts up the jeep. 

“Next stop, civilization!" she announces. "And a shower.” Nadine just _hmms_ again, gun already back in her hip holster, one muscular arm propped out the open window. With that, they're on their way.

—

Or, easier said than done, that. The drive back takes just about the rest of the night, hampered by barely-there dirt roads, the odd run-off or eroded cliff, and a poorly working GPS. By 5AM, they reach the outskirts of modern-day Athens city, a real sight for sore eyes.

Once within the city limits, they take lengthy turns with the shower at the hotel room they rented a few days ago, pack their things, return the jeep to the rental, and take a cab to the airport, where Chloe snags a ticket home to London in a couple hours. Nadine will have more of a wait and a far longer flight bound for her own home base of Johannesburg—they had decided the night before to split up and get themselves each a few good days of rest before starting the groundwork on another venture, this one hopefully better researched.

"Think you can sell that for anything?" Nadine asks dubiously, as Chloe repacks the boxed feather in her bag after security asked for a look at it. It isn't exactly contraband, so they'd given it back with apologies and confused looks all around.

"Not sure," Chloe admits. "Maybe I'll send it to Sam, tell him where to stick it. A thank you, for this wonderful trip."

Nadine snorts lightly, amused. She checks her watch. "Want to find something to eat, before you go?"

Chloe's stomach growls at the very idea. "Thought you'd never ask, love."

They find an airport cafe that seems agreeable enough and order. Afterwards, pleasantly full, Chloe makes sure her flight is still on—due to board in forty-five minutes, by the looks of it—and starts gathering her things.

"I'll walk you to your gate," Nadine offers, chivalrous as ever.

It's a bit crowded, once they arrive at the proper waiting area, but Chloe manages to find them seats off to one side where she can see the boarding screen. Soon as she sits down, the good food in her belly and the nagging fatigue from the last couple days comes crowding forward once again. Nadine, noticing her struggling not to nod off, taps her on the shoulder.

"Sleep, Chloe," she says. "I'll watch your things."

"Thanks, china," Chloe mumbles, mid-yawn. Another catnap might be just the ticket, since there's a chance sleeping on the plane won't work out so well, depending on who she gets stuck next to. Turbulence is never fun, either.

She closes her eyes and falls asleep just like that, slouched in her seat with her arms crossed and her chin drooped low on her chest.

—

She dreams.

She’s in the jeep again, only this time, it's a bit different, in that she's in the back seat now, lying crossways, and Nadine isn't in the front or even next to her—she's bloody on top of her, and they’re kissing furiously.

Or, well, not just kissing, Chloe realizes with a start, feeling like someone who's walked into a movie already halfway through, and during an action scene besides; she and Nadine are quite obviously having some _spectacular_ sex—Nadine’s hand is working busily between Chloe’s wide-spread legs and they’re both utterly naked, though Chloe’s not sure where their clothes have gone or if they need to worry about things like bugs flying in through the open windows or the state the leather seats might be left in afterwards. The rental company will be furious if they make a mess.

(Funny how dreams can give you intense clarity and perception of the most insipidly mundane. Awake-Chloe wouldn’t give a shit about leather seats or bugs if Nadine Ross really was on top of her. Just saying.) 

Now, sex dreams are hit and miss for Chloe, more often than not. Some feel as good as the real thing. Some feel better, almost like a searing eclipse. Others are diluted, just blurs of hot, wet throbbing and not much else. 

This? This is a good one.

Chloe can feel _everything_ —the sharp catch of Nadine’s teeth on her open, panting mouth; the soft patter of stray sweat droplets dripping down from Nadine’s hard-flexed torso onto Chloe’s naked chest and stomach; the tingling prick of Chloe’s own nipples, achingly hard, rubbing occasionally with a heady flare against Nadine’s; the tug-and-pull, behind-the-belly-button yank and pressure of two long, calloused fingers hooking deep inside her in a strong, steady rhythm. 

The tension from before is gone. This is more of an in-your-bloody-face _explosion_ of need and heat and sex. It's not a bad thing, just... unexpected.

Chloe’s so wet she can hear it, can smell it, can feel it running down her arse to puddle on those precious leather seats. She's missed all the build up and is already on the verge of coming her brains out. Her toes are curled, back starting to arch. Clearly, this dream is on fast-forward, not about to wait for Chloe to catch up to speed.

Not that Chloe’s slacking or anything, controlled as she is by the dream; she notices then she's giving it back just as good, her own hand sliding purposefully between Nadine’s twitching, muscular thighs. Beneath her sopping palm, Nadine is searing hot and ridiculously wet. Like soaked silk. Slippery and warm and perfect.

“Chloe,” Nadine moans in her ear, and a hot frisson races up Chloe’s spine at the ragged sound, because hearing her partner moan her name is, apparently, _incredibly_ sexy to her. That's new. Chloe wonders why it’s never occurred to her before, but now that it’s here, right in front of her, on top of her, bloody-well _inside_ of her… well, it’s sort of stupidly obvious, just how goddamn sexy it really is.

In response, Chloe crooks her own fingers, feels Nadine's sopping insides spasm and clutch in response. Above her, Nadine gasps and shakes, the lone arm propping her up flexing magnificently with the effort. Chloe wants to sink her teeth into those quivering cords of muscle. Wants to lick every trace of sweat off of them and memorize the flavor, and then bring her tongue even lower for a different sort of taste.

But this is a dream, and Chloe is not the one in control here, so instead, she finds herself pressing harder with the hand already delved between Nadine’s legs, sliding fast and sloppy against the thick wet of her. Nadine trembles, nearly collapses, moaning loudly right in Chloe's face. Chloe draws her hand back, only for a moment, as if in reprieve for her poor suffering partner, but also to admire the glistening sheen of her fingers, and the dewy threads connecting them to those deliciously flushed pink folds. Nadine moans again, and Chloe, unable to deny her, returns for more, slipping her way back inside the hot grasp of wet warmth with gathered fingers as Nadine’s head tips back in shuddering pleasure—

—

She wakes.

And yeah, okay, forget what she said before—it’s _very_ weird, blinking hard and lifting her head to see she’s slumped over onto the wonderfully solid shoulder of the real Nadine Ross, still sitting beside her at the busy gate; Nadine, who, even after months of working together, is still for the most part stoic and professional around Chloe. They have their tender moments, sure, smiling and laughing like good friends after a close call or a particularly silly mistake—most often at Chloe’s expense—but Nadine is, at her core, a very private person. Closed off to everyone, even Chloe.

And Chloe, she respects that (usually), so now, on top of feeling weird about it, she also gets to feel guilty, because if Nadine knew Chloe was having these sorts of dreams about her (nevermind that they came out of nowhere, nevermind that Chloe can’t control them at all) chances are she wouldn’t be very happy to hear it.

Just then, Nadine notices she's up. She arches an eyebrow down at Chloe. "Sleep well?"

"Er," says Chloe, feeling as if she should maybe apologize or start spouting excuses. Instead, she just says, "Yup," then clears her throat and sits up rigidly. Her cheek is warm and throbbing lightly from the pressure of resting on Nadine’s firm shoulder. She ignores it, checks the nearby screen. Her flight is boarding in eleven minutes. Good a time as any to get up and make sure all her things are at hand.

Nadine stands with her, and watches silently as Chloe checks her luggage, fumbling a bit with all the zips and pockets and maybe a little residual awkwardness from her very-intense, very-inappropriately timed dream.

The box with the feather is right where she left it. "Sure you don't want it?" Chloe asks again. On the way here, she'd offered several times for Nadine to take the feather as a sort of ironic memento, as her taciturn partner harbored a shy but borderline obsessive love for animals. A beautiful golden bird feather sort of counted, didn't it?

But again, Nadine shakes her head. "Rather forget about this trip as soon as I can," she grumbles, making Chloe laugh—she understands. Not their best work, this.

A few minutes later, travelers begin to stand and line up near the doors. An intercom announces the plane will board soon.

Set to go, Chloe gives Nadine a bright smile. “Ross,” she says, mock-formally as her goodbye, and winks, content with leaving it at that. She's learned not to go for hugs anymore, not unless Nadine initiates—only took a few times of her partner stiffening up in her arms for Chloe to realize the other woman wasn’t all for it, preferring less physically-intended farewells—and besides, the dirty dream is still running fresh behind her eyelids, like some X-rated movie at a theater she’s snuck into without paying. 

“Frazer,” Nadine replies in the same tone, though with an undeniable edge of slightly exasperated affection. Chloe's smile broadens. Nadine’s lips quirk. “ _Totsiens vir nou_.”

Then, to Chloe's surprise, Nadine steps forward suddenly, arms low, as if she’s made a rush decision to go for a hug instead of her usual formal handshake or friendly shoulder pat, and after those two dreams Chloe can’t help it, what happens next, she just reacts—

—she _flinches_ just before the other woman hugs her gruffly. It’s a small, unconscious thing, hopefully unnoticeable. Chloe regrets it immediately. Really, of all the times to spook, just when Nadine's getting more familiar with her—

“See you, love,” she says loudly, trying to cover up her blunder with her usual charming bravado, patting Nadine on her broad back fondly enough. Nadine is quick, though, and gives Chloe a low-browed, measuring look when they pull apart. Chloe tries for another smile and hefts her bag, ticket at the ready. “I’ll text when I land. And sorry ‘bout the whole, didn’t-find-anything bit. Next time, hey?”

Nadine nods. A loss every once in a while is a given in their uncertain line of business, though their ventures are usually profitable. Or, at least hovering near a 75% success rate, which is spectacular compared to Chloe’s old one. She hasn’t been broke in _months_.

Nadine’s impassive expression softens. “Fly safe,” she says. She looks Chloe over for a moment more in an odd way—though maybe Chloe's just being paranoid—then hefts her heavy-looking bag with ease and heads off to the neighboring terminal to await her own flight.

Watching her go, Chloe releases a quiet sigh of relief. She hadn’t meant to make it so bloody awkward, just now, unavoidable as it was. Really, what are the odds of having two dirty dreams in less than eight hours, and of the same goddamned woman besides?

Something funny is going on here, that’s for sure. Chloe’s going to figure out what, soon as she boards her flight, though probably, she just needs to find a bloke or a bird and get herself laid. It's been a while, if she's being honest. Or, hell, maybe she'll just take care of it herself, and release some of that roiling sexual tension building up inside her.

Or maybe she should just try to get more than a few hours of snatched sleep every other day, like she has been this past week. Yes, that’s the ticket; a long, uninterrupted night of rest will do her some good, clear up her head. Christ, she misses home. Fond as she may be of those leather seats in the back of the jeep—for _several_ reasons—she can't wait to sleep in her own bloody bed.

…Unless the dreams start up again. 

They won’t, she tells herself, scoffing, entirely sure of it. They _can’t_. Things come in threes, sure, but dreams? That… that’s ridiculous, is what it is. Really, why would it happen again?

It’s not like she’s, what— _cursed_ or something silly like that, right?

—

So, Chloe’s cursed.

Crazy as it may seem, she’s sure of it now. Trick is to just accept it, and get right on with figuring out what to do next. Bollixed as she is when it comes to the otherworldly, Chloe's open to suggestions.

Her flight turns out worse than she imagined. Not that there are any screaming babies or yappy seatmates stuck beside her, though. Just that, the minute Chloe feels herself getting drowsy and her head starts to nod, lulled by the low-roaring hum of the aircraft around her, the faint rush of the little air blower overhead, she remembers those steamy yet terrifically intrusive dreams of her and Nadine in the jeep and unwittingly jolts herself awake.

It happens not once, not twice, but three times, and after each Chloe is forced to sit there—a sweet grandmum knitting and humming on one side of her, a grave-faced businessman rustling through a newspaper on the other—feeling antsy and foolish in turns, almost like she’s done something wrong and is waiting to inevitably get in trouble for it—only what she’s done is incredibly stupid, and the only reason she doesn’t want to be caught is because it’ll be so goddamn embarrassing.

Then, after telling herself she's being silly and paranoid for thinking those sorts of things, that everything is fine and dandy and she's just over-bloody-tired, as usual, Chloe _does_ fallen asleep, or at least a half-drowse.

She dreams.

Off and on, the images come, like a stuttering film reel struggling to play on poorly kept equipment. Sensation comes slowly _—_ the warm, musky smell of sweat and sex; the press of mouths meeting and clashing; a tangle of tongues; the rasp of lungs, gasping in each other’s air; the pinch of blunt nails on delicate skin; callused hands clutching at damp, naked flesh; a wet heat throbbing somewhere down below; a sharp, straining need in her veins. Nothing exactly new, sure, yet somehow titillating nonetheless.

And, well. At least she and Nadine are fucking in a proper bed this time, the cramped, leather-seated jeep nowhere in sight. Not quite the improvement Chloe's looking for, but hey. Beggars can't be choosers.

Dream-Nadine is positioned on top of Chloe again _—_ and, you know, usually that's where Chloe likes to be but at the moment, that's just fine with her _—_ but pulls suddenly away from their brain-melting kiss to trail down from Chloe’s sore, panting mouth, drifting toward her tingling breasts, lips hovering tortuously close to her tragically-neglected nipples before moving even lower, over her heaving stomach. Chloe’s legs fall open at the slightest touch of a hand on her knee. Oh, Jesus.

Ever the masochist, she looks down and watches as Nadine, eyes half-lidded and lips kiss-swollen, licks hungrily at the crux of her, and feels a heady, tingling rush at the sight, let alone the feel. Her body is like one big aching throb, centered directly between her thighs as Nadine's tongue swirls hotly around her pounding clit, the hard bead of it almost painfully engorged. Then Nadine's mouth draws her in and sucks at her like _—_ like a goddamn milkshake, and Chloe yelps, hips jolting off the bed. Not about to have that, Nadine growls against her and then holds her down with a firm hand, leaving Chloe unable to do anything other than cry out and squirm in pleasure. It's the most exquisite torture imaginable.

Thankfully— _unfortunately—_ it's over before Chloe can really begin to enjoy herself; a violent judder of turbulence jerks her suddenly awake, simultaneously stupidly turned on and appalled with herself.

Not as fun as one would think, that; inappropriate sex dreams on a crowded flight. Chloe has to get out of her seat and hide in the loo for a bit to, er, calm down, though not exactly in the way she really wants. Fingering herself in such a public place seems in rather poor taste, so she just splashes water on her face and neck and does a couple yogic breathing exercises ‘til the mild shaking stops. 

After, she goes back to her seat feeling worse than a bloody teenager, and for the rest of the flight refuses to let herself nod off again despite her creeping exhaustion, aided by several rounds of piping hot coffee from the flight attendant and asking the grandmum at her elbow to tell her _all about_ her six grandkids, to which the elderly woman obliges most enthusiastically.

So, there. Cursed. 

Now Chloe just needs to figure out what to do about it.

Landing goes well. Chloe rushes out of the airport like her arse is on fire, bag in one hand, phone in the other. It’s a miracle she catches a cab, though it takes twice as long as normal before someone stops for her. Probably, half the blokes took one good look at her frazzled hair, haggard face and bloodshot eyes and kept driving. Arseholes. Not that Chloe can blame them, exactly. She is starting to feel a little frantic about all this. Sleep deprivation can do that to a girl.

At her flat, she collapses on her couch only for a few minutes before forcing herself up to scrounge her laptop from her bag for—what else?—research. She’ll start with Greek Mythology and go from there. Really, what else can she do? Besides, Morpheus is the purveyor of dreams, isn’t he? Awful funny she started having unavoidable sex dreams about her very much platonically-destined partner after they entered his tomb and took his—

_—his feather!_

Chloe scrambles again for her bag. Finds the feather, looks closely at it, every centimeter and barb. Takes her time about it, too, studying the damned thing from the stiff of the quill to the soft rasp of the vane, but finds no malformation, no suspicious writing or foreign material.

Eventually, she's forced to admit that, to her well-trained eye, it appears to be nothing but a normal, perfectly organic bird feather, perhaps most similar to those of a bird of prey, an eagle maybe, but that’s where her so-called expertise ends. She snaps several close-up pictures with her phone and sends it to Nadine, asking if she can try and help identify the exact species, or get in touch with someone who can. Use that big brain of hers filled with random animal facts for something a bit more productive than trivia hour at the pub; like, say, getting Chloe the hell out of this mess.

She checks her watch. By now, Nadine will be on her own flight home, though it’s a good ten hours or so to Johannesburg. Chloe won’t be hearing from her anytime soon. She sighs. It’s barely midday here in London, so if she doesn’t want to be jetlagged, she needs to stay up 'til at least the early evening, though that’s easier said than done, when she’s already been running on fumes for the past 48 hours or so. Helps, though, how she’s already dreading what other dreams may come, a growing knot of anxiety beginning to tie itself in her stomach.

Resigned to more coffee, she sets herself up at her kitchen table with laptop and phone, and gets to work. 

—

By 8PM, she’s learned nothing new. Morpheus, unfortunately, is not one of the more popular Greek Gods. Information about him is limited, and generalized. Most websites and literature state the same facts over and over again. _Morpheus is the God of Dreams, his father is the God of Sleep, blah blah blah._ Everything else is Zeus this, Zeus that. Zeus fucking a swan or cheating on his wife, _again._ Bloody Greeks. 

Discouraged, Chloe shuts her laptop a bit harder than she should, takes a shower, and girds herself for bed. Her body has limits, and if she doesn’t want to get sick or lose her mind—might be too late for that second one, but hey—she needs to _sleep_.

She makes sure the feather isn’t anywhere near her—just in case—before flopping down on her mattress with an appreciative groan. Anticipation roils in her stomach, but doesn’t keep her sleep-heavy eyelids from drooping for long. Christ, she’s exhausted. Now, if only the dreams stay away, so she can get some proper bloody rest—

_—_

She dreams.

The first thing Chloe notices is that they are in a bed again, only it's _her_ bed, which, honestly, is a bit personal for her taste. She’s always preferred going to other people’s places for impromptu sleepovers, as then she's able to choose when to leave, and also decide if she wants to see them again afterwards, if she had a particularly good time. You know, control, and all that.

(But right now that’s, er, beside the point.)

Second thing Chloe notices is she's on her knees, sweaty face buried in the sheets to stem her howls, arms strong enough to haul herself up endless lengths of corded rope trembling like jelly with the simple effort of keeping herself propped upright as Nadine fucks her soundly from behind with two deeply thrusting fingers.

It's a lot to take in so suddenly _—_ no pun intended, love _—_ and for a split second, Chloe doesn't react. Then, only a moment later, Nadine's wrist skillfully adopts a back-bowing swirl and her digits a rough scissoring motion, and suddenly those enviable cliff-climbing arms of Chloe's give out completely, and she slumps forward with her arse stuck in the air like a shameless little thing, which, okay, she sort of is. Chloe Frazer doesn’t exactly do modest, or reserved. Sue her.

She can’t exactly see Nadine in this position, what with her face crushed in the rumpled sheets as it is at the moment, but Chloe knows it’s her. She can tell—the strong, harsh grip on the meat of her thigh, keeping her legs spread good and wide is knee-wateringly familiar by now, let alone the hard, muscle-knotted body pressed deliciously against her arse and back. Jesus _Christ._

Chloe moans raggedly, and arches her spine and opens her legs even further 'til she's practically wobbling for balance, even on her knees, presenting herself as best she can for the pound of Nadine’s relentless fingers _—_ it feels like three now, oh, _fuck—_ the white-hot pressure within her mounting with every thrust, until she feels about to burst. It’s almost too much until it isn’t. 

“You cool?” dream-Nadine says, only this time her voice is pure sex rather than innocent concern. Certainly nothing Chloe’s ever heard in real life. Good thing, too, because the second it hits her ears it makes her keen and clench and _gush_ , vainly trying to rut back at those wonderful fingers driving so roughly into her. 

Nadine chuckles darkly—Jesus, just _that_ and Chloe’s drenched all over again—and then a hot, biting mouth trails down her spine and lands on the cheek of her arse, teeth sinking sharp and brief into the firm globe of flesh. Chloe cries out shrilly and practically comes on the spot. Huffing for air against the musky-smelling mattress, hands gripping the sheets to shreds, she moans weakly as a wet tongue slides into the crease of her arse and nearly spasms off the bed as that tongue finds—

She wakes.

 _"Fuck_ ,” she says.

—

Tired, frazzled, and numbly turned on as she is, Chloe _has_ to get up, after that. Literally forces herself out of bed, even slaps her own cheeks a few times to disperse her lingering drowsiness—not hard enough to bruise or anything, just enough to get her brain to reform from the hormonal mush it’s melted into. Pacing her flat doesn’t seem to help any, so she takes a cold shower to try and teach her libido some manners. Doesn’t work, but still. A for effort. 

She checks the time. 1AM—ungodly early, or fashionably late, depending on how you look at it, but not bad, as far as consecutive hours sleep goes. Every little bit helps, sort of. Then again, Chloe doesn’t exactly feel rested at all, just sticky and exasperated and growing the slightest bit panicked. 

Sighing, she rubs her face again, checks her phone. Nadine has surely landed in Johannesburg and is home by now. Probably, she’s happily asleep in her own bed, dreaming perfectly innocent Chloe-free dreams.

Three text messages pop up on her lock screen, received near 10PM last night.

 _Home,_ it says. Succinct as always, Nadine Ross.

The next one says, _I’ll see if I can identify your feather tomorrow._

The third; _You good?_

And, shit. Those are just about the _last_ two words Chloe wants to see right now. After last night she can only think of them said in a low, sexy husk, and feels that warm frisson go down her spine again. Then she realizes why Nadine sent them, and winces. Nadine’s worried about her. She’s checking up. This is about the flinch in the airport, obviously _,_ and alright, Chloe’s knee-jerk reaction when Nadine tried to hug her probably warranted that one. Chloe already feels bad about it, so of course it’d come back to haunt her, because that's how Frazer luck went, apparently. 

_Fine_ , she writes and sends before her addled brain catches up with her fingers. She freezes a split second later, realizing what’s she done—sent a text to Nadine at 1-bloody-AM-in-the-morning. In Johannesburg, it will be 2AM. Shit! If Nadine wakes up and sees the text, she’ll be even more suspicious with Chloe’s recent behavior. Off to a wonderful start, here, genius. 

Annoyed with herself, Chloe shuts off her phone and sets it aside. She can deal with that little gaff later. For now, she flicks on a few low lights and brews herself a strong pot of coffee, and then sits with her laptop in the gloom of her flat, intent on a few more hours of research.

That’s the intent, anyways. That’s not, exactly, what happens next.

Simply put, after only half an hour or so of random internet searches and dead-end sites, she falls asleep right there at the kitchen table, facedown on her laptop with her nose on the space bar.

—

She dreams.

Nadine’s fucking her from behind again—Chloe doesn't exactly mind the unoriginality, as this is the kind of repetition she can certainly get used to—only now it’s not just a lovely calloused hand drilling between Chloe’s legs, it’s something thicker, sturdier. Silicone, maybe. Chloe can feel the chafing nudge of a harness against the sweaty backs of her thighs, and the hard, slippery jut of a well-lubricated strap-on driving into her, again and again. 

Now, Chloe’s never been much of a size queen—she’s adaptable, and can make most anything work with whoever else is involved, so long as they put their minds to it—but this one here is big, enough that she can feel a dull, aching stretch and goes a little faint and cross-eyed every time Nadine pushes all the way in, but she’s so wet the size isn’t a problem, like, at _all—_ she can literally feel herself drizzling onto the sheets, can hear the way she squelches when Nadine bottoms out.

It’s goddamn _glorious_.

Behind her, Nadine's breath comes in harsh, rapid bursts. The snapping stroke of her hips is brutal and deep, almost like a machine. Chloe can feel the trembling power behind it, the strength and flex of perfectly formed abdominal and oblique muscles at their prime. The hands on Chloe’s hips are bruisingly strong, refusing to allow her to buck back. Control stripped, Chloe moans every time they clench just a little _too_ hard on the wings of her hipbones, deliriously aroused with her own helplessness.

Nadine grunts, her pace picking up until Chloe is crying out at the tail of every breath. She wants to tell Nadine to slow down, to go faster, to give her less and more and harder and so many other things that she's lost the ability to form words. One of the hands locked on her hips slides back and seizes the full of her arse, squeezing harshly. Chloe moans, struck with a sudden need to see her, see Nadine, and drops herself on one elbow and twists backwards like a cat so she can look up and over her shoulder.

Through the dark curtain of her own loose, sweaty hair hanging in her eyes and splayed across her naked back, Nadine glows above her like some lost, forgotten goddess, her brown skin limned golden with sweat, hair messy and wild, thick frizzled curls dangling in front of her stoic face. Chloe tries to catch her gaze, but Nadine is looking down where they’re connected, at the thick shaft sinking fast and slick into flushed pink folds, her expression utterly determined, a feral hunger alight in her low-lidded eyes. Impossibly, her hips speed up even more.

Chloe jolts, moans, painfully close to orgasm. The cruel grip on her arse releases and a broad hand dips between her thighs to find her needy clit, pinching it gently between callused fingertips. The fingers stroke her slow, then fast, and Christ, she’s nearly there—she just—

—

She wakes.

And, okay, _that_ pisses her off. The least the goddamned curse can do is let her bloody-well _finish!_

Scowling, she jerks up from her kitchen table and wipes a bit of dried drool off her chin. Her arse is numb from her hard-seated chair. Her laptop is asleep, screen blank—and good for it, since Chloe sure can’t seem to do the bloody same—and she slaps the lid shut with a loud clap. She checks her watch. Barely past 2AM. She hasn’t even been asleep an hour. Outside her flat’s windows, the London sky, peppered through with the lights of the neighboring buildings, is still relatively dark.

Christ. She’s never going to make it.

She manages another four hours awake, aided by a pair of stupidly expensive espressos from the cafe down the block. Thank God for twenty-four hour businesses, though the cashier does look slightly concerned when Chloe stumbles in. She ignores him as well as she can, just places her order and then sits at the nearest window with her little cup and sips. The drinks don’t make her feel more awake, though. Just more jittery and wired than ever, set to snap. Her entire body, by now, is dying for a break, _longing_ for some proper sleep. She almost wants to cry for need of it.

When she gets home, she’s going to _burn_ that bloody feather.

—

Back at her flat, she loses her resolve. Burning the feather will likely not free her from the curse—if she is, in fact, well and truly cursed, though she can’t think of any other reason she can’t get two seconds of sleep without being subjected to non-stop, mind-numbing sex dreams.

Or maybe she’s just going through menopause early, and her hormones are exploding. Right.

Logically, if she _is_ cursed, odds are there’s a reason behind it. A lesson to be taught, or some such nonsense. If she wants to be rid of it, she'll have to complete some sort of task, or fulfill a requirement. Hard to say what that could be, though, unless she goes with the obvious, which—no. Can’t be.

...Or is _that_ it? Shit. Would it really be so simple, that the dream is already telling her what to do to break it?

Well, Chloe’s not buying it, and she’s certainly not about to seduce Nadine Ross, her very-much-not-romantically-involved-work-partner, just to get this bloody curse off her back. Probably, she’d have to fudge the facts a bit to get Nadine to agree, anyways, and Chloe’s already lied to her once and regretted it, back in India. She won’t do it again, not even for a curse.

Think, dammit. There has to be a reason she keeps having dreams of Nadine fucking her, or her fucking Nadine. Something deeper (er, figuratively speaking). Something more than lust, or pure physical attraction. Something she’s missing, a riddle she needs to work out with that (supposedly) clever brain of hers. 

(Unless Morpheus is just a bloody pervert out to torment her. Arse.)

Theoretically speaking, if Chloe wants to figure out what the curse needs or requires, she’ll have to go to sleep again, and as soon as she starts dreaming, try to pay attention for missed clues or hints that will help point her way. Ugh. Who would’ve thought guaranteed knicker-ruining sex dreams could make Chloe Frazer so reluctant to go to bloody bed?

Still jittery with caffeine and the crush of an oncoming migraine, she checks her watch—closing in on 7AM now—and lays down on her saggy little couch, sure she won’t be able to fall asleep for her sudden nerves. Yet, in mere minutes, she’s dozing.

_—_

She dreams.

They’re in Chloe's bed again, her and Nadine, only this time, Chloe’s the one sporting some new equipment, her lower stomach and thighs ablaze from the fevered pace she’s set, thrusting her no-harness strap-on hard into the woman spread out under her, gasping sharply at the brilliant pressure it puts on her front wall from the insert.

Nadine's on her back, facing Chloe, eyes closed and mouth open, hair a mess, whimpering and moaning in a high, delicate timbre every time Chloe drives in. Just hearing it _—_ the fragile, desperate edge, a noise Chloe never thought big-bad Nadine Ross capable of making _—_ in turn makes Chloe tremble and pound her hips even harder, teeth bared like some wild animal.

Chloe’s always been a bit of a switch, so this change of pace, as it were, is a nice sort of surprise. For a while she’s lost in the thrill of it, and the feel of heavy, muscled arms slung round her neck and hard sweaty thighs bracketing her jerking hips. She struggles to break her concentration, trapped in a sudden but ferocious need to make dream-Nadine beg for it in a way she can’t imagine real Nadine ever will.

Finally, though, she manages to knock a bit of sense into herself, so to say, and tears her attention from the gasping, writhing beauty beneath her. Quickly, her eyes dart about, but it’s difficult to wrestle full control from, well, herself. Or, her dream-self.

Things are misty apart from Nadine and the bed, and Chloe doesn’t recognize anything out of reach. It doesn’t even really look like her flat, apart from the bed itself, which is disappointing but not terribly. It's not like she was expecting a big arrow pointing the way to her answer of how to break the curse, yeah, but something—anything—would've been nice. 

Beneath her, Nadine whines pitifully, and seizes Chloe by the back of her neck to pull her down for a sloppy kiss. Chloe moans, hips stuttering at the hot swipe of Nadine’s tongue through her open mouth. She eases the frantic pace of her fucking, lets herself feel and relish the subtle drag and squelch of the shaft between them as she withdraws, agonizingly slow.

Nadine makes a sound of protest. Her arms flex, pulling the lengths of their bodies together as her shins tighten around Chloe’s flanks, ankles crossing at the curve of Chloe’s arse, bearing down with strength and shoving her back inside. Chloe gasps at the constriction around her waist and neck _—_ they are pressed entirely together now, every inch, and in that short moment, Chloe feels as though she has never been so close to someone else, in every way but the physical. The thought brings a sudden lump to her throat.

The world spins, then, and suddenly Chloe is on her back, being mounted by the most beautiful woman she’s ever seen. Acknowledging that is surprisingly easy. Watching Nadine Ross straddle her, her gloriously formed naked body lit golden by some unseen sun, face serene and relaxed and confident in her pleasure, mussed hair stuck to her sweaty temples and neck, is utterly breathtaking.

An odd sensation sparks in Chloe's chest from the sight. It’s beyond sex now, she realizes, and then, because she’s Chloe goddamn Frazer, Queen of Relationship Hang-ups and Emotional Insecurity, feels a sobering chill of pure fear at the very idea of there being _more_ to this. She stiffens unconsciously, feels her heart begin to pound hard against her ribs. A cold sweat forms on her throat and chest. Oh, Jesus.

She can't look away as dream-Nadine sinks herself down onto the strapless shaft jutting from Chloe’s tired hips, groaning softly at the smooth penetration, and then looks at Chloe and whispers, “Please.”

Chloe doesn’t quite know what Nadine is asking anymore. She feels suddenly lost and adrift and afraid.

“I—” she says.

_—_

She wakes.

It’s light outside, when her eyes open. Downtown London’s morning traffic rumbles up through the bones of her flat, loud as ever, though every once in a while, there is a flurry of wings outside her window as pigeons take flight or land near her sill. The city hums and sighs almost like a living thing.

On the couch, Chloe stays where she is. She’s slept almost three hours, but she doesn’t feel rested at all, just rest _less_. Frazzled. Anxious, even, and Chloe Frazer doesn’t do anxious. She doesn’t worry. She doesn’t dread. She doesn’t lay on the goddamn couch with a sore bloody back from the shit cushions feeling scared and hopeless and sorry for herself and not knowing what to do next. 

But there is, at least, one thing she _does_ know.

She will _not_ sleep with Nadine Ross to get rid of this curse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chlodine week day 5: longing/pining
> 
> this one was another reach to fulfill the prompt but bear with me here I'm fumkin tryn


	2. Chapter 2

So.

Maybe sleeping with Nadine Ross is going to have to happen.

It’s just _sex,_ Chloe reminds herself. It doesn't have to be a big deal. Besides, if she can figure out the right way to explain the situation to her partner, Nadine might not even mind doing it, especially if she knows she'll be helping Chloe, the little do-gooder, so goddamn selfless she'd probably agree on principle alone, and that's all well and good for Chloe because she is, quite literally, going _fucking_ insane.

It’s been several days now, and she can’t sleep. Or, well, she can, physically. Quite easily, in fact. By this point, she’s so bloody tired that every time she so much as closes her eyes longer than five seconds, she drifts off—

—and then come the dreams, of which she and Nadine are the unwitting, unrelenting stars.

Dozens of them, she’s had by now, if Chloe’s counting (she is), featuring just about every single carnal desire she’s ever fancied in her entire adult life; back bending positions, countless scenarios, sex toys galore—vibrators, handcuffs, plugs, you name it. Literally _everything_ Chloe’s ever personally done or imagined doing in bed, and even things she _hasn’t,_ and she’s Chloe fucking Frazer! 

And, okay, even if they are only dreams, seeing them, experiencing them, it’s—it’s getting to be a bit much. Sure, Chloe’s never been shy about her sexual wants or needs before, but this is beyond an invasion of privacy. Now it’s just plain rude.

Goddamn curse, sticking its nose where it doesn't belong, into Chloe's business. Telling her to fuck her partner, or whatever. Piss off, right? She and Nadine are friends, nothing more. Nevermind that maybe these dreams are getting to Chloe far more than they should. Nevermind that she wonders sometimes if the curse just wants her to fuck Nadine the once, or in a variety of ways, as previously shown. None of that matters, since she's sure Nadine would have something to say about it. Hell, so does Chloe. She will _not_ be dictated to by a goddamn dream.

It's exhausting, all this. Chloe's tired of thinking about it. She's tired of everything.

Staying awake now is a struggle. Chloe flickers in and out of sleep like a narcoleptic on cocaine. Dreams sputter and stop and begin anew everytime she so much as blinks too long. Her heart has taken to racing at odd times and she’s so wired from caffeine she can’t eat without getting sick. A constant headache swells in the crown of her skull, beating at the back of her eyes. She’s not sure how much longer she can take this—hence, the reluctant admittance that perhaps she’ll need to get Nadine involved after all.

Nadine finally texted, earlier the other day, to tell Chloe the golden feather couldn’t be identified as belonging to any specific species of bird, though it most resembled a large eagle.

 _Yeah, no shit it’s not a real bird_ , Chloe thought, and had practically thrown her phone across the room in disgust. Then another text came through.

_Why did you text me so late?_

And, shit. Nadine _would_ notice something like that, wouldn’t she? Not like Chloe could deny the time stamp, though.

 _Couldn’t sleep_ , she sent back. Not a lie, so take that, honesty. Then, dreadfully curious, she found herself hesitantly typing out and sending, _Hey, you been having any weird dreams, since you got back?_

 _No_ , Nadine replied. _Why?_

Thinking fast, Chloe joked, _Just making sure Morpheus isn’t holding a grudge for raiding his temple_. She added a winky face and hoped Nadine would drop it.

She did, thankfully, leaving Chloe free to resume her solitary suffering.

That was almost two days ago. Now, Chloe spends her hours awake dreaming micro-dreams, jolting back into awareness at odd times, drinking coffee by the pot, clicking about on her laptop for pointlessly futile respite, and dodging phone calls and texts from Nadine with pitiful excuses, dreading the nights to come. 

(She still hasn’t destroyed the feather yet, as, most likely, she was cursed simply by being the first and only one to touch it. Getting rid of it now won't save her, as much as she wishes it would.)

Soon enough, the sky outside goes dark and Chloe feels the unavoidable tug of a bone-deep exhaustion weighing her down like bricks. She nearly falls asleep, right there in her shower, and catches herself on the glass wall just in time to avoid a nasty knock on the head. She cuts the water, towels off, and collapses naked in her bed, facedown and limp with fatigue. She nearly screams for want of some honest-to-goodness _rest_ , the real kind, blank and heavy and dreamless, but she knows she won’t get any.

Fucking Morpheus. This is _true_ torture.

Within a few minutes, her breathing slows, and she’s asleep.

—

She dreams.

As soon as it starts, Chloe can tell something's off. This dream feels... different, from the others—perhaps most obviously, she's not in a jeep, or a bed, or naked at all. Hell, she's not even having _sex_.

She dreams of Nadine smiling fondly down at her. They are walking beside one another somewhere sunny and warm—a beach, Chloe thinks, yes, that's it—the sand hot and giving beneath their bare feet. A calm surf rushes in the distance. Gulls jeer faintly.

They’re holding hands. Nadine’s palm is hard and dry, callused from years of holding a gun. So is Chloe’s, for that matter, from climbing rocky crags and hauling herself up countless ropes, but their fingers fit perfectly, threaded together as they are, and, looking up at her partner, Chloe can feel a sort of odd, golden glow throbbing in her chest that grows with every step they take, filling her with a beautiful, unrecognizable warmth.

Confused and not a little bewildered, Chloe lets herself be led along the beach by the beautiful woman smiling down at her. Their pace is slow and relaxed, and her heart is aching softly, almost like a bruise that's being pressed on, but she finds herself smiling back.

They stop, then, and face each other, and for a moment, Chloe wonders if this is it, this is when Nadine will tear off her clothes, throw her down to the sand and fuck her sideways, or maybe they’ll run into the water and do it there, or this whole beach will fade away and a bed will materialize out of nowhere because this has to be a sex dream, it _has_ to be—

But no. The beach stays, and so does the golden warmth in Chloe's chest, glowing like fanned embers when Nadine steps closer and cradles Chloe’s face in her free hand. The other squeezes gently on Chloe’s captured fingers, and Chloe feels her heart give a weak flutter, almost like she's swallowed a butterfly. 

When Nadine kisses her, it isn’t even on the mouth, but the cheek, and at the tender touch of her lips, every part of Chloe goes buttery-soft and melty ( _Christ_ , she’s a sap). A part of Chloe wants to laugh or ask what the big deal is, try and joke her way out of this, but Nadine is already pulling back, that sweet smile of hers gone sweeter than ever and her eyes soft and sincere—

—

Chloe wakes alternately baffled— _really?_ _that was it? A kiss on the goddamn cheek?—_ and completely furious with herself, more so than after any of the other, far filthier dreams she's had before, because it’s one thing to fantasize sexually about your bloody gorgeous work partner—that's just natural, in Chloe's opinion—and it’s another to actually imagine them in some sort of… what, _relationship?_

And, okay. Wanting to fuck someone, Chloe can handle. Bring it on. But wanting more? No. No, she can’t do that. Can’t let herself imagine it, being with Nadine. Or—or _long_ for it, because—

Because—!

She fights the dreams harder than ever, after that, but they’ve changed since the one on the beach. Gone are the exasperating, intrusively detailed dreams focused solely on mindless raunchy sex, making way for G-rated tenderness and affection, like a Disney movie on steroids. Rather than feel relieved by the sudden shift, Chloe is horrified, as, for her, these are about a hundred times worse.

She dreams of holding hands with Nadine again, going for walks here or there, and then cuddling together on a couch. She dreams of Nadine, sleeping with her head in Chloe’s lap while Chloe plays with her hair. Them, cooking together, sitting together, reading, talking, doing nothing. Nadine kissing her on the brow, on the neck, on the lips, softly and sweetly.

Thankfully, the sex does eventually make a reappearance, though not as often as before, and when it does, Chloe's discouraged to find it’s more than just desperate fucking. There are bubble baths and rose petals and—and _feelings_ involved. The sex itself is practically unrecognizable. Slow-paced, gentle. Heavy, with lots of slow kissing and eye contact—and not the fun kind, mind.

Sometimes Nadine talks when they're in the midst, only she doesn't say anything foul anymore, just tells Chloe she's beautiful and lovely and how good she makes Nadine feel, and fucking _hell_ but Chloe's done, she really is, because this isn't sex, it's making love, something she's not sure she's ever done before—

And there goes her bloody theory of curing herself, then. Clearly, the curse doesn’t want her to fuck Nadine. It wants her to hold hands with her and make kissy faces at her. Christ, if she—

Something blips, then, and Chloe starts, sitting there at her kitchen table, spilling a bit of her morning tea on her shirt (she literally can’t handle anymore coffee at the moment, no matter her building exhaustion). She swears, puts the cup down as the blip sounds again. It’s her open laptop, pinging a notification—

Oh Jesus. Nadine is trying to Skype-call her.

“Fuck,” says Chloe, smearing a hand across her face. It’s 5AM here, making it 6AM for Nadine. They last saw each other almost four days ago, back at the airport in Greece. Chloe's managed to avoid her partner’s phone calls and texts deftly enough 'til now, but can’t exactly excuse herself when she’s already got the bloody video-chat program open and online. What a dumb mistake.

Still, she could just ignore it. Pretend she’s out or something stupid like that. But… No. Eventually, Nadine will demand answers. Better for Chloe to placate her now, spin off some sort of excuse and hope her partner buys it. Fingers crossed the other woman doesn’t question her too much, or notice her growing weariness. 

(Right. Fat chance, there, hero.)

Chloe hits accept.

A few moments later, Nadine’s stern but beautiful face fills the screen. She’s dressed for the day—probably already had a run in, and a round of weights—hair loose and bouncy from a shower, soft white t-shirt clinging to the bulge of her lovely trapezius muscles. Chloe almost has to look away. She’s seen dream-Nadine so many times, facing the real one now is almost… daunting.

“Frazer,” Nadine says, bluntly, sounding a little surprised that Chloe answered. Her eyes narrow. “It's early. Why aren’t you asleep?” Which— _rude_. Like, that’s what Chloe wants to know. “Eish,” Nadine goes on. “You look like hell.”

“Gee thanks, love,” Chloe snaps back. No proper sleep for the past few days has destroyed her filter, her usual wit replaced with a bitter snark. “Think I know why Jess left, now.”

 _...Shit_.

Nadine blinks, visibly taken aback. Chloe can see herself in the screen’s corner window, looking aghast as well, and for good reason. Low blow, that. Jess, Nadine’s last girlfriend, had broken up with her only two months ago. Nadine never talked about it. Chloe hadn't pried.

Rather than start a fight with Chloe over that very unnecessary personal comment, Nadine merely frowns, and then asks in a hard voice, “You alright, Chloe?”

“Fine,” Chloe insists briskly. She doesn’t even try for chipper. Too much bloody effort. She sips her tea. “Just peachy.”

A tense silence falls between them. Chloe shifts uncomfortably. 

“Sorry,” she says, though the apology doesn’t make her feel any better. “For saying—”

Nadine doesn’t acknowledge her. “Are you still having trouble sleeping?”

“I—don’t worry about it,” Chloe says. Because, really, she can’t talk about this. Not with Nadine. Not with the one who’s been haunting her dreams for days now, in all manner of dress _and_ undress. God, she’s just so bloody tired.

She puts down her tea, takes a moment to collect herself, eyes closed, and then sighs. “Everything is—”

“Chloe.” Nadine’s voice goes soft and pleading, so unlike it usually is. Her scowling face, diluted somewhat by the blurry pixels of Chloe’s laptop screen, seems drawn with worry. Chloe swallows hard against her partner’s obvious concern. “Why haven’t you been answering my phone calls? Or my texts?”

“I—” Chloe starts, struggling with what she should say. She wants to be honest with her partner, but this—this could ruin them. “I don’t know,” she admits.

“Did something happen?”

Technically, she’s been cursed, but Chloe certainly isn’t going to mention _that_. Nadine really will think she’s a liar, then. She fights back a sudden creaking yawn, covering her mouth with her hand. “It—it’s nothing, Nadine. I’m taking care of it.”

Again, it’s quiet. “Did…” Nadine begins, and then hesitates, sounding unsure. “Did _I_ do something?”

Chloe starts in surprise. God. Of course Nadine Ross would blame herself for something going on with Chloe, selfless woman that she is. “What? No, of course not!”

“If I did,” says Nadine, adamant, “I want you to tell me. Just, be honest with me. I’m—I’m worried about you, ja?”

At that, Chloe’s throat goes painfully tight. She croaks, “Look, Nadine, I promise, you haven’t done anything, alright? I just—I need to figure this out for myself, okay?” God, even to her it sounds an awful excuse. Like something thought up by a five-year-old to appease an angry parent.

“Chloe—” says Nadine.

“Listen,” Chloe rushes out, struck by the sudden need to cut their conversation short. She’s about hit her emotional limit, and ready to weep from exhaustion, and if she does it while Nadine’s watching, she’ll never hear the end of it. “Um. I—I’ve really got to go, love, sorry.”

“Chloe,” Nadine tries again. She's nearly begging. It breaks Chloe’s heart. “Please.” It sounds nothing like it did in that dream, days ago now. It is a hundred times worse.

“Sorry,” she says again, a grief-stricken ache creeping up her throat. “Nadine, I’ll—I'm sorry.” And then she hangs up.

Nadine calls back, not five seconds later. Chloe shuts her laptop so she won’t hear the ping. Her phone lights up immediately after, vibrating noisily on the table. Chloe lets it ring, thinking maybe Nadine will leave a voicemail and then stop. Her partner does neither.

When she calls again for the third time, Chloe turns her phone off, and then just sits there at the table with it gripped in her hands, swallowing hard against her swollen throat, blinking furiously and staring at the wall.

—

She dreams of Nadine in a white dress. 

They stand facing one another, hands clasped between them, surrounded by a small group of smiling friends and family. The Drake brothers are there, and Elena. Sully. Nadine's mum and Chloe's mum, elbows threaded like old friends. Even little Cassie, giggling and squirming in her mother’s arms. 

Chloe looks down. She’s in white, as well. Her chest is filled with that same golden glow as before, only it's so much stronger this time, like a sun that is all her own.

She can hear someone talking but can't decipher the words. Across from her, Nadine looks so terribly happy it makes Chloe want to cry all over again; then there's a cheer, and Nadine leans forward, face open and tender and loving in a way Chloe has never witnessed or imagined, and just as they’re about to kiss—

—she wakes up, and _does_ cry, until her throat is sore and her eyes are red and sandy. 

God-fucking- _dammit._

It’s—this is just… That's it. Chloe's done. Give her back the mindless sex dreams, the boundless lust. That’s easy, compared to this. This is the scary stuff. The stuff Chloe Frazer can't handle.

She stumbles out of bed, still half-choked by her tears, face raw and chest tight, and finds the feather in its horn box in her still-unpacked bag from Greece, and throws it against the wall as hard as she can.

It breaks with a less-than-satisfactory clatter, the thinly carved horn shattering into chunks and the golden feather itself fluttering slowly to the floor with a shimmer, and for the rest of the day Chloe doses herself to teeth-rattling wakefulness with every manner of caffeine in her flat, liquid or otherwise. She can’t sleep. She _can’t_. She doesn’t want to face those dreams anymore. 

(A wedding. A bloody wedding. God, did she really dream that? In all her life she's never even considered something like marriage for herself, not with _anyone_ , and now this. And just how much worse can it get? What will she see the next time her eyelids close? Herself and Nadine holding a child, something else Chloe’s never imagined for herself? Or the two of them growing old together, going on adventures as biddy old ladies? Christ, just the thought hurts her heart, like someone's jammed a white-hot poker into her chest and left it there to squeal against her burning flesh.)

She glares at the golden feather, still on the floor by its shattered box. _What do you bloody want?_ she aches to scream at it. What is the purpose of these goddamned dreams, other than to ruin her, or drive her mad? How can she be rid of them? Are they supposed to be showing her something? Guiding her somehow? Foretelling the bloody future?

Of all things, she finds that last one hardest to believe. Dreams are _not_ real. They do not and cannot predict how your life will unfold. Hell, they could mean nothing at all. Dreams are dreams, and they don't have to bloody make sense.

But they had to come from _somewhere_ , and whether it's from Morpheus, or _whatever_ force is behind this, or—or something else, even if it's—

...Shit.

At that moment, glaring at the golden feather and shards of broken horn, it hits. The true culprit of this mess.

"Oh, _fuck me_ ," Chloe rasps aloud.

It's her. It's bloody _her._

The dreams, they aren't showing Chloe what the curse wants at all. They're showing Chloe what _she_ wants.

"Jesus. Oh, Jesus _fuck._ "

It makes sense, when she thinks about it. Dreams are formed by your subconscious. Everything you've ever seen or imagined or—or hoped. If they had to come from somewhere, why not her own subliminal mind? And what had the curse done but brought the thoughts already there forward, and into the light?

"Shit. _Shit!_ "

Of course the filthy, sex-heavy dreams came first; for Chloe, physical attraction and sexual compatibility were very important, and usually the first things she looked for in potential romantic partners. Made it easy for quick, shallow flings, just the kind Chloe liked, the chemistry fizzling out just as fast as it started. As a result, most relationships she'd ever been in were short-lived and easily forgotten.

But then, later, the sweet, tender dreams came. The hidden yearnings. The shameful softness. Things Chloe didn’t even know she wanted, too convinced by her lifelong doubts and hang ups that she didn't deserve them after so many other failed relationships.

"Goddamn it..."

Really, at this point, is it so hard to believe that maybe, just maybe, smothered beneath the twice-thick layers of self-denial and insecurity she’s built upon herself for the past 39 years, Chloe Frazer wants something more than a business partnership with Nadine Ross—

—because she _does._ She fucking well does, dammit, and maybe if these dreams hadn’t started up in the first place, Chloe never would’ve had to—to admit it to herself, that—that she's—

"I'm in love with Nadine Ross," she whispers aloud.

And, Jesus. There. It's out.

Chloe covers her faces with her hands and groans.

Seems sort of... _obvious_ , now that she thinks about it. The way she's felt, her own hidden wants, buried so deep down it's taken a bloody curse to uncover them. How long, exactly, has she been denying this, denying herself? Feels like ages, almost. God.

It doesn't matter, she tells herself bitterly, glaring down at that stupid golden feather on the floor. Nothing has really been solved. Chloe is still trapped, doomed to dream of all the wonderful, heartbreaking things she cannot have in the waking world, because while Chloe may now know how _she_ feels about it, Nadine Ross may feel another.

Perhaps there _is_ a way to break the curse, but for what Chloe stands to lose in doing so—a partner, a friend, someone who maybe could've been more—she’ll take the dreams any day of the week rather than nothing at all. 

—

Somehow, she gets through the brunt of the day in one piece, but by late afternoon, her body has gone heavy and slack with supreme exhaustion. She falls asleep on her sorry little couch in the living room, curled up on her side on the lumpy cushions, arms wrapped loosely around her middle, for all the comfort that will give.

She dreams.

“Chloe,” she hears. 

Chloe looks up. She’s still on her couch in her flat, and dream-Nadine is standing over her with a soft, concerned expression on her face. Her hand is on Chloe’s shoulder. It feels heavy. Real, almost, which is what makes these dreams so hard to handle.

Nadine leans down, eyes intent on Chloe; she smells sharp and clean and wonderfully familiar. Her hair is loose, curls uncharacteristically mussed, as if she’s arrived to the dream in a hurry. Her clothes are wrinkled, her face drawn. 

And yet, somehow, she's still the most beautiful thing Chloe's ever seen.

“Let’s get this over with,” Chloe mumbles to herself, rolling her eyes at her own sentimentality, and grabs Nadine by the back of her neck and yanks her down for a kiss.

Their lips meet harshly, though not from passion, but genuine clumsiness—Nadine’s nose bumps Chloe’s cheek, Nadine’s mouth dropping open so Chloe finds herself kissing her teeth rather than her lips. Chloe sighs, and waits for the dream to work itself out, or turn into some sappy rom-com that will leave her heartsore and aching for the next few hours of wakefulness.

And then an odd thing happens.

Nadine doesn’t kiss her back. 

Instead, she makes a shocked sound and jerks away so suddenly Chloe loses her grip on her neck, leaving her frozen on the couch with her hand in the air like a loon, mouth hanging agape, squinting up in bleary-eyed confusion, while Nadine stares down at her incredulously. The fuzziness at the edges of Chloe’s vision fades. Suddenly, she feels more awake than she has in days.

Oh, Jesus goddamn _Christ._

This isn’t a dream—it’s a bloody nightmare.

At once Chloe is perfectly and painfully aware that Nadine Ross—the _real_ Nadine—is here, in London, holding the spare key to her flat in her hand, the one Chloe gave her three months ago, for emergencies.

“What the hell, Chloe?” says Nadine. She doesn’t look outraged or disgusted, exactly, just caught off guard and flailing, which she never is. Makes for a strange sight, seeing a woman so self-assured looking like she just missed the last step on the stairs. Chloe would laugh if she wasn’t so horrified with herself at the moment.

“Nadine?” Chloe croaks, throat thick with fitful sleep. Things clunk slowly into place, her brain stalling before revving forward into a wall. “The hell are you doing here?” 

“I was worried,” Nadine says defensively. “You sounded… off, when we last spoke.”

Chloe jerks herself upright on the couch, panicked, and does what she does best when confronted with a bit of vulnerability or compassion, and lashes out. “So that means _jump on a bloody plane and storm into my flat?_ ” 

Nadine stiffens, looking embarrassed, then sets her shoulders, face hardening into its usual grimness. As if she knows what Chloe is trying to do—deflect—and won’t stand for it. 

“I told you I was worried about you,” she says firmly. “You’re my partner, and you were acting oddly. And then you wouldn’t take my calls. I came to check on you.”

 _Check on you._ Right. Like it’s _that_ easy. A twelve hour flight, Nadine took to get here, and a no-doubt stupidly-expensive plane ticket to boot. This is more than just checking up. This is Nadine blatantly caring about her, so much that she’d risk overstepping their boundaries and their friendship by coming here, and deciding to do so anyways, despite all that.

And now Chloe has nowhere to run.

“I already said,” Chloe starts. “I’m fine—”

“Why did you kiss me, just now?” Nadine interrupts.

To her profound horror, Chloe feels herself flush, mortified by her partner’s bluntness. Nadine, already looking slightly uncomfortable, notices immediately. Irritated, Chloe looks away and tries to play dumb. “What do you mean?”

“You heard me,” says Nadine in a challenging tone. 

Chloe waves a hand, then rubs it across her bleary face, attempting a flippant air, when actually her heart is racing madly, half-terrified, half-brazen. “I—I was half-asleep. Thought you were someone else.”

At her sides, Nadine’s fists clench. “You didn’t,” she growls, and Chloe’s bravado quails. Christ, has this woman always been able to see right through her? Bloody inconvenient right now, tell you what.

“You shouldn’t’ve come here,” Chloe bites out, suddenly angry, and annoyed; that they have to do this, have this conversation, face these fears she’s been hiding from for so long. Damn Nadine Ross for giving two figs about her, for traveling over thirteen-thousand kilometers, just to make sure she’s alright.

“I was worried,” Nadine repeats, as if that explains everything.

“You don’t have to be,” Chloe snaps, the words growing strangled with emotion. “We’re work partners. That's it. We don’t need to check up on each other.”

Nadine's voice rises to a sudden shout that echoes sharply within the confines of Chloe’s flat, “Just because we’re work partners doesn’t mean _I don’t care about you!_ ”

And _that’s_ when Chloe bursts into tears.

—

So.

Turns out crying in front of someone is _spectacularly_ embarrassing, especially when said someone is the object of a somewhat hidden affection.

Chloe’s certainly never done it before. Well, once or twice with Nate, maybe, but never like this; big, heaving, frantic sobs, like a kid who’s lost their mum at the store. Or an overtired toddler whining about being put to bed. She feels bad for Nate and Elena, now more than ever. _Christ_ does she need some proper sleep, already. 

“Shit,” she hears Nadine mutter, only a few moments after her tears really get going. The couch cushion beside her dips as Nadine takes a seat. “Chloe,” she says, and tries to put her arm around her.

But Chloe, of course, self-destructive moron she is, flinches away on pure reflex, just like she did at the airport. Again, it’s a knee-jerk reaction, nothing she can control after days of intense, not to mention ridiculously invasive dreams, and again, she feels terrible about it right away. The dejected look on Nadine’s face doesn’t help, either.

“Sorry,” Nadine says quietly, quickly pulling her arm back. 

Chloe covers her face in her hands, gulps out, “It’s fuh-fine. Juh-just give me a suh-sec.”

And then she lets herself go, and just _cries._ And, you know, it feels sort of good, getting it all out. 

After a moment, Nadine reaches out again and puts her hand on Chloe’s knee. Chloe doesn’t flinch this time, so she keeps it there. Chloe tries to focus on that—the weight of her partner's hand, its subtle warmth through her jeans. Quicker than she thought, her tears begin to ebb away, and she’s left puffy-faced and sniffling and even more humiliated than before. Really, could this get any worse?

“Sorry ‘bout that,” she jokes—or attempts to, hiccuping on one last sob. “That—I—I’m just so bloody tired.”

“Have you slept at all, these past few days?” Nadine asks gravely.

“Sort of,” says Chloe, swiping at her face with the back of her hand. “Not really.” Nadine gets up to find her some tissues, hands them over, then rinses a clean washcloth in the sink and brings that, too, so Chloe wipe her face. The cool, cleansing touch comforts her far more than she expects. “Thanks.”

“Something did happen, then,” says Nadine, returning to her cushion beside Chloe and placing her hand on her knee again. “Back there, in that temple.”

“I—the—” Chloe starts, trying to figure out how to put this. Nadine is looking at her so patiently. She sighs, starts again. “Ever since Greece, I’ve been having these… dreams.”

"Dreams?" Nadine goes still. “...Nightmares?” Her fist clenches in her lap, the tendons in her forearm pulling taut. It’s sort of cute—as if she’s prepared to physically fight them, for Chloe’s sake.

“No. They’re…” Chloe hesitates. There won’t be going back from this, once it’s out. “They’re about you.”

“Me?” Nadine blinks. Her brow furrows. The hand on Chloe’s knee lifts slightly, like maybe she’s thinking of pulling away. “...What kind of dreams?”

Now, Chloe Frazer doesn’t get embarrassed. She doesn’t. But somehow, in that moment, Chloe Frazer is so bloody embarrassed she wants to die. Which is stupid, because it’s just dreams, something she can’t control or predict, so really, it’s not even her fault that she's been having them. 

She gives Nadine a single, short look that said, _Come on, love. You bloody know what kind._

“ _Oh_ ,” Nadine says, after only a moment or two, and Chloe can hear in her voice that she’s figured it out. Her hand does lift away, then, and Chloe feels awful. Like she’s violated something sacred between them.

“Is—” Nadine stops, starts again. “Is that why you’ve been so strange with me, lately?”

Chloe shrugs miserably, helpless in her honesty. “I guess.”

“Oh,” Nadine repeats.

Again comes the silence, the almost palpable feel of an invisible space growing between them. Chloe wants to shout, to scream, to claw it back together, to—

“Sorry,” Nadine says suddenly.

“Why are _you_ apologizing?” Chloe bursts out.

“Well,” says Nadine, looking away briefly and rubbing the back of her neck with her palm. “Because I’m sure you don’t want to—to be having those sort of dreams about me.”

Chloe’s jaw drops, flabbergasted. “Wha— _I_ don’t? About _you—?_ Why wouldn’t—? I figured _you_ wouldn’t want—”

“Oh, no, that’s not—I—I don't mind, it's just—” Nadine looks away again, distinctly uncomfortable. And go figure, as they’ve pretty much both admitted they're fine with the fact that Chloe is having absolutely _filthy_ dreams about the two of them.

It’s quiet again. Chloe’s definitely not about to speak first, not after that, so she’s relieved when Nadine clears her throat.

“Why do you think you’re having these… dreams?” she asks, voice gone the slightest bit strained. With mortification, no doubt—least it’s not just Chloe in that respect, anymore.

Chloe takes a deep breath and decides to just go for it. “Alright, don’t laugh, but… at the temple, I’m the one who found the feather, yeah? Since then, I haven’t had a wink of good sleep, and every time I do fall asleep, I dream of… us. And, well, anyways, I… Look, I don’t really want to say this but I’m going to. I—I think I got… _cursed_ , back there.” She glances at Nadine, whose face is utterly blank. “I think some… _thing—_ call it Morpheus himself if you want, I suppose—did it, and is… is messing with me. Or—or maybe I'm just batty, y'know?”

Once more comes the quiet, a familiar sort of acquaintance to them now. Stuck in a mental-cringe, Chloe fiddles with her hands in her lap, ready for laughter, or derision, or disbelief. Sounds so silly, saying it all aloud like that. Christ. Even she wouldn’t believe that crock. If—

“So how do you break a curse?” Nadine asks with all seriousness.

Chloe has to struggle not to gape, shocked. First off, that Nadine believes her. Second, that she’s already prepared to help. “Come again?” she blurts.

Nadine shrugs. The same hand from before returns to Chloe’s knee and squeezes gently at her kneecap, as if in solidarity. “Well, you must have dealt with something like this before. Things you can't understand. The... otherworldly, ja? Or maybe Drake has. You, ah. You want to call him, maybe?”

“ _God_ , no,” Chloe replies at once.

A small, relieved smile blooms across Nadine’s face. “Ja. Good. I didn’t want to, either.”

Chloe stares, and then suddenly she’s laughing. It feels good—not just the laughing, but the relief that comes with it. That Nadine believes her, just like that, and is here to help her through it. Chloe's so thankful it's sad, really.

“I know it sounds crazy,” she manages as her laughter peters off. “But _something_ is going on with me and—and I can’t get any rest and I’m just so tired and at the end of my bloody rope and all I want to do is just, just _sleep_ , you know?"

Nadine makes a noise of assent, then says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “Maybe we should sleep together, then.”

Chloe chokes. Splutters. Phrasing, Ross. Jesus.

Nadine rolls her eyes. “I meant,” she says carefully, “let’s try going to sleep in the same bed. Am I the only one you’ve dreamt of, since…?” Chloe nods, struggling not to feel shy about it. “So. Let’s try it.” Nadine stands then, and waits. For directions to Chloe’s bedroom, Chloe realizes a moment later, and feels her heart (and other areas) give a little thrill at the idea.

And really, Chloe is way too tired to be making decisions like this—relationship-wrecking decisions, work, personal and otherwise—but at the moment it sounds as good an idea as any. Definitely better than filling herself to the gills with caffeine and trying to wait it out like she’s been doing so far. And, hey, if it doesn’t work, at least they can say they tried.

She walks Nadine to her bedroom— _there’s_ something she’s never imagined she’d do—and flicks on her lamp, turning the gloom of the room into a soft rosy glow. Her bed is unmade, sheets and covers kicked astray from her constant restlessness. Chloe sits on the side, feeling, probably for the first time in a good while, nervous about what will happen next.

Nadine glances at Chloe and the bed in turn, then takes her jacket off. The sight of her bare, flexing arms makes Chloe’s throat go a little dry. Oh, this is going to be awful, isn’t it?

To stop herself from doing or saying something stupid, she scoots back into her usual spot on the right, lays down, and stares up at the ceiling, listening to the thump of her pulse in her ears alongside the double clunk as Nadine takes off her boots and sets them against the wall.

When was the last time she had someone in her bed, just to sleep? Chloe wonders. Years, feels like. And sure, she and Nadine have slept close together before, out there in the field or in shitty hotel rooms and the like. But this is Chloe’s _flat_. This is her _bed_.

Nadine gets a knee on the mattress, then pauses, as if having second thoughts.

"Where _is_ the feather?" she asks suddenly. "The one that started all this."

Chloe motions back toward the living room, only slightly confused. "In the living room. I, er. Threw it against the wall."

Nadine gives her a sympathetic look and retreats. Chloe hears her rustling about in the other room, and several moments later, she returns with the golden-sheened feather in her hand. She twirls it once or twice between her fingers, thoughtfully, then shrugs and sets it on Chloe's nightstand.

"Probably doesn't matter where it is," she mutters as she climbs onto the bed beside Chloe. "Figured it won't hurt, ja?"

Chloe hums in agreement, staring steadily forward as Nadine stretches out next to her with a quiet groan. Probably, she’s tired from her long flight in, the daft woman. Chloe smooths out her breathing, tries to get used to the second body in her bed. It’s not an intrusion, just different than she’s used to, and more intimate than she realized.

She closes her eyes to try and mute the sensation, but that only makes it worse. Little details flicker through her mind seemingly at random; the warmth of Nadine’s arm against her own; the sound of her breathing, soft and slow and measured; the faint stretch of fabric as her chest rises and falls. So close, the smell of her is stronger, a pleasant, familiar sort of scent, and a vague yet profound detail her many dreams neglected to have. She’s missed it. 

Despite herself, she fights a mighty yawn, the pull of sleep dragging her inevitably downwards. Before it can draw her eyes fully closed, she glances drowsily over at Nadine and finds the other woman watching her fondly. 

"What?" says Chloe, fatigue making her blunt.

"Here," says Nadine, and shifts so she can curl an arm around her. Chloe is too tired to resist, and rolls over so she can rest her head on the solidness of Nadine's shoulder, her own arm falling across the other woman's trim waist.

“Good?” Nadine asks, sounding a bit sleepy herself, as well as perfectly calm and composed. Like they’re having tea or something, and _not_ holding each other in bed.

“Mm,” says Chloe. Already, she’s drifting off again, a testament to her exhaustion. She falls asleep to the sound of Nadine breathing quietly in her ear and the radiating warmth of her hard-muscled body against her own.

—

She does not dream.

—

When she wakes, her flat has gone completely dark but for the rosy lamp she flicked on before lying down. The downtown traffic outside is loud and boisterous as always. The clock on her nightstand relays that she’s been asleep for seven whole hours—Chloe almost starts crying again, seeing that. Practically an entire night’s rest, though now her schedule is wonky—it's only about midnight. Not that it matters any, as something tells her she shouldn’t have a problem dozing off again and catching another few hours of sleep.

The feather is still on the nightstand. Chloe squints at it, confused for a moment, then realizes it's turned from its initial golden sheen to a pure, brilliant white. She stares at it for a long time, a lazy, relieved smile spreading across her face.

God. They’ve done it, then, haven't they? Nadine Ross to her rescue once again. Almost seems sort of stupid, how easy it was. Fucking Morpheus.

Beside her—or, well, _under_ her, really—Nadine is breathing steadily, still in the same position she was before Chloe fell asleep. Poor thing must’ve been bushed from all her traveling. The pressure of her arm beneath Chloe's side is a physical thing now, like it’s become a part of her. Chloe doesn’t move, keeping her cheek where it is on Nadine's sternum and her breathing slow and even, taking the time to relish the sensation of the other woman pressed so very close, the feel of their bodies touching. Probably, if this stupid curse really is broken like she thinks it is, she won’t get another chance for a good while, and—

“How did you sleep?”

Chloe _eeps_ , stiffens. Of course someone like Nadine Ross would already be awake and alert before Chloe, perfectly aware of her surroundings at all times, and also able to tell when someone is feigning sleep.

“Good,” she replies, and then yawns creakingly. While she does feel far more rested than she has in days, she can tell it’ll take more than a single night's rest to get her back to one hundred percent. She tries for a joke. “Hope you don’t mind being my sleeping buddy for a bit, Ross. Least 'til I've caught up on my hours, hey?”

“Ja,” says Nadine, almost at once. "Sure." Like it’s that simple, requiring no actual thought on her part.

She wonders, then, at how quickly Nadine agreed to this mess, when really, Chloe could’ve been making all of it up to begin with. What proof is there for Nadine, that Chloe was ever cursed at all, other than her word?

Nadine trusts her, Chloe sees then, and can't help but balk at that—trust has always been a hard-earned thing for and from Chloe Frazer—then rolls carefully off of Nadine and back to her own pillow so she can see her partner properly. After a moment, Nadine copies her, and they lie there on their sides, facing one another on the bed.

“Thank you, Nadine,” Chloe says quietly, shifting about for few seconds, body stiff from so long in one position, and hopes Nadine can hear the sincerity in her voice. Any longer without sleep, and she might’ve walked into traffic. Nadine Ross, her hero.

Nadine just nods, and quirks her lip in the semblance of a smile. Her face is soft. Chloe is so used to stern; this, she isn’t sure what to make of. "You're welcome, Chloe."

Chloe’s eyelids flutter, on the verge of a bit more sleep, when she feels Nadine’s hand, still stuck under her waist, turn and cup the bottom of her ribcage. She stiffens, thinking maybe Nadine wants to move it, but then a thumb traces back and forth over the curve of her side, making her shiver, and then go still. Really, there’s no other way to interpret a touch like that other than obvious affection, unless—

“You don’t have to do that,” Chloe mumbles, trying her best not to feel alarmed or panicked, which is how she always reacts when faced with things like feelings.

“Do what?” Nadine asks lowly. Her thumb, thankfully, stops, but doesn't retreat entirely.

“Touch me. Like that.” Chloe grimaces, more at herself than Nadine. It’s not that she doesn’t want Nadine to touch her at all, just that Nadine shouldn’t feel like it's necessary, in order for Chloe to fall asleep.

"Oh?" says Nadine. "And what if I want to?”

Chloe’s breath catches in her throat. Suddenly she is very much awake. Her eyes go wide and flick up to Nadine’s low-lidded ones.

“Er. ...Do you?” she asks in a small voice.

Nadine is quiet for a second. “Tell me something. Why do you think you dreamed of me?”

Changing the subject, is she? Chloe frowns. “What do you mean?”

“You could have dreamed of anyone, ja?” says Nadine, and shrugs. “So why me?”

"I—I don't know." Chloe rolls her eyes and hides her face into her pillow and scowls, resentful that they still have to get into this. Can’t they just lie there and, you know, not bloody speak? “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Frazer,” Nadine says sternly. “I just flew twelve hours to get here. We’re going to talk about it.”

Chloe sighs theatrically, rolling onto her back to glare at the ceiling. The hand beneath her frees itself but doesn't go far, resting comfortably against her bicep. Chloe leaves it there, letting herself be selfish in the weight and warmth of its comfort for at least a little longer.

“The dreams I had,” she says carefully, “they weren’t just about, y’know, sex. I mean, at first, that’s _all_ they bloody were.” A slightly hysterical laugh escapes her throat, but rather than get upset, Nadine just quirks her lip again, looking only slightly exasperated with the situation. “But then, after awhile, it… it was more, I guess.”

“You haven’t answered my question,” Nadine says. “Why—?”

“Why you?” Chloe blurts. “Of course it's you! Come on, Nadine. You’re just so—so kind and selfless and strong and—and bloody gorgeous, alright? And, I mean—you came all the bloody way here just to make sure I was okay, and even though I know we only work together, it’s still so nice being with you and… I don’t know. Maybe I…” Her eyes flit about, refusing to land on her bedmate. Already, she's said too much, and before she can stop herself, the words are falling right out of her mouth. “Maybe I sort of… want more.”

Nadine is quiet for a long time, though Chloe can feel her watching as she squirms there on the bed. It’s very apparent to her that she’s just laid her heart out and is waiting for it to be stomped on. She already has a self-deprecating joke prepared, just for the occasion.

“Jess never liked you, you know,” Nadine says thoughtfully, out of nowhere.

Which—what? Oh. Ugh. Jess. Nadine’s ex, from two months ago.

“Not exactly a secret, love,” Chloe huffs. Jess hadn’t exactly tried to hide her distaste for Chloe. Throughout her relationship with Nadine, Chloe had always been "That Woman" to her. _Why are you on the phone with That Woman?_ and _Are you and That Woman still out on the job?_ Ugh.

“Ever wonder why?” Nadine asks.

Chloe thinks about it a bit, then shakes her head. “Dunno. Cuz I’m... prettier than her?”

Nadine smiles faintly at Chloe’s poor joke. “No. Well, I mean, you are—” Chloe feels herself flush at the unexpected compliment “—but I think it’s more because she sort of… well, knew.”

Chloe’s pulse stutters in her chest. “Knew?” she parrots hollowly. 

“Ja,” says Nadine. “That I had feelings for you.”

This time, Chloe’s pulse bloody-well _stops_. “...You did? You—you do?”

Nadine flicks her eyes slowly from the tips of Chloe's toes to the crown of her head, and smiles in a way Chloe’s only seen in her dreams—sweetly, with an obvious warm affection. “Mm.”

For a moment, Chloe just lays there, speechless. Words stick fast in her throat. Everytime she thinks one is about to break free, it gets hung up on another. Jesus. How did Nadine make it look so easy, just admitting all that, right to Chloe’s face? 

“I—”

“But I never said anything,” Nadine goes on, sounding all the world like she’s casually talking about the weather. “You flirt with everyone. Even Victor. What makes me any different? I never imagined you might feel the same. If, maybe, you wanted to try, with us.” She pauses, as if to let Chloe fill in the blank.

“I— I—” Chloe attempts again. Her brain still isn’t working properly.

Finally, she bursts out, “ _Christ_ , I’m bad at this,” and then grabs Nadine by the front of her shirt and yanks her in for a good hard kiss. It turns out far better than the one from earlier. 

When they pull back, Nadine's grinning softly. “Was that a yes, Frazer?”

“Hate to find out what you think a no is," Chloe replies. She can't stop smiling.

So then, she can't help but wonder, is _this_ what Morpheus wanted, in the end? For Chloe to finally fess up and make her dreams a reality, or at least get them well on their way to becoming so? Were the dreams his way of saying, _get a bloody move on, already, look what you could have if you just find your guts?_

Nosy little bugger. Can’t say she isn’t grateful, though. Four, almost five days of next to no sleep but end up with a new girlfriend for her trouble? Not a bad trade-off, overall.

They kiss again. This time, Chloe shows off a little, gives Nadine a taste of what dating Chloe Frazer will be like. When they part, Nadine is breathless and flushed. She collapses backwards, swallowing hard, Chloe falling on top of her, giddy.

“Maybe I really will take that feather,” says Nadine, pulling Chloe down briefly to give her a perfectly chaste kiss that still sends her blood rushing. “Keep it as a memento, like you said.”

Chloe laughs, delighted by the idea. "Say, do me a favor, won't you, love?"

Nadine looks up at her with eyes that seem ready to give her the world. "Anything."

Chloe's lips quirk into a grin. "A pinch, to make sure I'm not dreaming."

"Ja." Nadine, cheeky thing, pinches her arse.

“Ow! Oh, you little—” Chloe laughs, slaps her hand away. “I’ll get you back for that one, Ross.”

Nadine tucks a loose lock of hair behind Chloe’s ear and smiles up at her. “In your dreams, Frazer.”

Chloe laughs again, and feels, in her chest, the very start of that familiar golden glow, just like she felt in those wonderful dreams of her and Nadine holding hands and walking on the beach and getting married. She knows what it is now. It has many names, but she's sure of one of them well enough.

Happiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chlodine week day 6: rest/sleep
> 
> technically chloe DID sleep with nadine in the end so there
> 
> AKA I was tired of writing sex scenes ok gawd


End file.
